


Roaring Twenties

by Persiflage



Series: Bondkink Fics [66]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Magic, Canon-Typical Violence, Car Sex, Crossdressing, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-28
Updated: 2014-07-28
Packaged: 2018-02-10 18:21:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2035281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Persiflage/pseuds/Persiflage
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bond 'verse historical AU in which Bond and Dench!M are magic users.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Roaring Twenties

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tayryn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tayryn/gifts), [Wolfsbride](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wolfsbride/gifts).



The good thing about the Moonlight Serenade nightclub being invisible is that it never gets raided. The bad thing is that being invisible makes it that much harder to find for the rest of us. You need a little magic of your own, which Madame M has, and anyway, finding places that aren't there has never been much of a problem for her.

Madame M has the car drop us off at the corner near Piccadilly Circus, and sends the driver on his way. I follow her along the rain-slicked pavement which is steaming slightly, the day's heat not yet dissipated despite the heavy shower an hour ago. It's early enough in the evening that the streets are crowded with cars and people, all on their way to somewhere else, and none of them taking much notice of anyone else.

I shrug my mink more firmly over my shoulders, noticing that Madame M's has slipped down to her elbows, showing off the smooth skin of her back, and I feel a pulse in my groin at the recollection of how smooth that skins feels under my fingers or my mouth. We look like sisters, walking side by side and in step as we progress down the street, and no one who looked at us would guess that I'm not even a woman, so complete is the glamour that shrouds me. Usually I lurk a pace or two behind M's shoulder, a taller, blond-haired, blue-eyed man whose mere presence is enough to put off most troublemakers, but tonight M needed a woman to accompany her to Moonlight Serenade, and since I refused to let her go without me (what kind of bodyguard would I be then?), I am now that woman.

The alleyway that Madame M turns down next looks just like any other to me, but I know that she knows the way, so I keep pace with her despite the incongruity of two women in silks and minks in an alley full of reeking dustbins, out of which hurtles a yowling cat when it feels the brush of M's magic in the air. I watch as M knocks on a solid brick wall which shows no sign of either doors or windows, and I feel very little surprise when a slot opens at head height. M leans in and whispers a word I can't hear, then the door opens. It's either a door painted to look like bricks, or a piece of the wall itself swinging outwards; I can't tell which, but it doesn't really matter anyway.

The music of a three-piece band playing jazz drifts down the hall to meet us, and it sounds like heaven, stirring my senses and making me wish we were at home for the evening. As if reading my mind, M turns towards me and gives me one of her naughtiest smiles as she mouths the word 'later' at me, and I force my attention away from my aching groin, bringing it back to our surroundings.

The doorman, a very large man in a blue suit that seems scarcely big enough for him, looks us over and nods his approval; there's a line of fur just above his collar, I notice, and a few tufts in his ears and on the backs of his hands, and when he smiles at M, I see a golden glint in his eyes and a hint of fangs in his mouth. _Werewolf_ , I think, and wonder if he's pure or hybrid, before dismissing the thought as irrelevant. I walk past him without meeting his eyes, as befits the persona I'm wearing this evening, although it goes against my instincts not to give him the hard stare I usually give to anyone I think might be a threat.

A cloakroom girl who looks normal (but then, so do I) takes our furs and I tip her before following a clean-cut, well-scrubbed young waiter who has appeared to guide us into the club proper. He tells us that a table's just opened up; of course, because a table always does happen to "just" open up wherever M goes as she's not the sort of woman anyone crosses willingly. I give the waiter our drinks order, then settle into my seat next to M at the table, which is near the dance floor and effectively in the middle of everything. I note that the club is full, despite being invisible and hard to find; at first glance it's the normal crowd such as you'd find in any Soho nightclub on a Friday night: Bright Young Things; older women finely dressed in expensively cut evening gowns; older men in suits or, occasionally, a tux. But when I look more closely I can see the odd fang or claw, a delicate fae wing, or even a bit of horn under slicked-back hair. However, no one's drawing attention to themselves, or their real nature, so I don't either: the last thing we need tonight is for anyone to look too closely at me.

Doorways lead off the main room to back rooms where card and dice games, or other things of a more discreet nature, are offered, but one doorway is different: a bead curtain hangs there, through which, despite the haze of cigarette smoke, I can just make out a very elegant woman, surrounded by men in suits and over-dressed women, who give the impression of being courtiers attending their queen. The scene is vague, however, as if I'm seeing it through opaque glass.

We're here tonight because Madame M wants to talk to Cissy, the woman behind the bead curtain, the one who runs Moonlight Serenade. Personally, I think it's a bad idea, but I'm not about to say so since M's smarter about these things than I am. The back-and-forth, secret deals, swindles, and such like, are meat and drink to her. The things I'm smart about are watching her back and spotting trouble before it happens.

It's just the two of us in this den where gamblers are by far the least of our worries; there are people here who would drink our blood dry, if we were foolish enough to let them, or tear out our throats; there are even a few who'll buy your soul, despite knowing how little some souls are worth. M and I do all right, though: my eyes and her tricks keep us safe. Just a couple of dames out on the town, that's what we look like, in our bright silk dresses with our knees and shoulders bare, and feathers in our bobbed hair. To anyone who doesn't know M, we look like easy prey, which is exactly the message M wanted to give off, and that's why I'm here as Pauline, her best girl friend, rather than James Bond, her bodyguard.

Our drinks arrive and M sips at hers as the band plays, before casually announcing in a low murmur, "Something bad's coming."

I glance around idly, although my gaze is taking in every detail: the card game in the corner; the nearby gangster's foot soldier who's trying to impress his girl, both of them leaning across their tiny round table as he shows her the gold band on his watch – while her lips are smiling, her eyes are hungry, and I know she's trying to get something from him. Elsewhere, a dozen small intrigues are brewing, but most of the people here are just wanting to have a good time, and enjoy the drinks.

"Raid?" I ask. "A take over? Is Rocky finally moving in on O'Malley?" Tony O'Malley is the one presiding over the corner card game. He's here to show everyone that he's not afraid of either Rocky or anyone else. 

"No, this is bigger. Everything goes to hell."

With M, I can never tell if she's speaking literally or metaphorically. "This one of your dreams?"

"Visions," she says, still calmly sipping, leaving red lipstick prints on the glass. 

"The future?"

"It is."

"What do you want me to do?"

"Same as always: keep your eyes and ears open."

She's thinking out loud, I can tell by the absent look in her blue eyes, which makes me nervous, or rather more nervous, than I already was. 

M senses this, as she always does (she reads my emotions like a book), and leans back in her chair, putting her arm along the back of mine. Her fingertips brush lightly against the side of my neck in a fleeting gesture that focuses my attention on the quickly growing heat in my groin. I feel myself stiffening beneath the silk dress I wear, and bless the roomy nature of the French knickers M gave me to wear. The oddity of the sensation of my cock swelling inside women's underwear is matched by the sensation of nipples on breasts I don't really possess, also stiffening with desire. Confused, I draw a cigarette case from my handbag, light one, then offer it to M, before taking one myself.

"Let's just pretend we're here for a good time," she says as her gloved hand takes the cigarette from mine; she draws a long breath from it, then lets out a cloud of smoke, her mouth open in a sensuous pucker, and it's all I can do to restrain myself from grabbing her, lifting her onto the table, and fucking her right there. The wicked smile she gives me a moment later as her foot begins tapping in time to the music makes me curse fluently under my breath. 

M pretending to have a good time looks exactly like the real thing; she could make a living on the stage if she chose, but she's ended up in this sort of place for a reason. As have I.

The place smells of alcohol and humanity on a hot night, despite the ceiling fans turning above our heads. There's nothing off in the rhythm of the nightclub, though: drinks are flowing, carried here and there by the busy waiters who seem to be in three places at once. There's a cigarette girl making the rounds of the tables, a cute kid in a deep red bustier and satin shorts that I wouldn't mind seeing Madame M in. The girl's dark hair has been put up under a little red cap, and I note she's one of those girls with legs up to here, but then again, so is M, for all she barely tops five feet in her stockings.

Realising that my cock's responding to the direction of my thoughts, I make myself look over at the card game in the corner; it would be a very bad idea to let myself become too distracted by the desires of the flesh.

As I watch O'Malley and his cronies playing cards, listening to the high cracks of laughter as the men pretend that the money they're losing is of no import, I decide that if trouble comes from anyone tonight, it will be one of them taking issue with one of his opponents. Of course, the doorman will have made them leave their weapons at the door, so that's one thing I don't have to worry about; M and I can easily take cover from a fist fight, but bullets and knives are harder to dodge. After all, being invisible won't make it any easier to avoid being caught in the crossfire.

I notice the cigarette girl is passing our table yet again, but not offering us any cigarettes, despite the fact M and I are both smoking. She catches my eye, so I signal to her to stop, and notice the way in which her bustier moves as she breathes out a grateful sigh.

"Packet of cigarettes," I say. "There's something you want to ask, isn't there?"

She glances from me to M and back again, which tells me she knows M's reputation, but doesn't know which of the two women facing her is Madame M. I nod at M to clarify matters.

"What's the problem, dear?" M asks, her tone brisk, but not unfriendly. "Quickly."

I pretend to dig in my handbag for my purse in order to pay her, making her wait, and thereby giving her the time she needs.

The girl screws up her face and says quickly, "I'm stuck. I mean, we're both stuck. I mean – " She pauses, then lowers her voice to a whisper that I can barely hear, but M doesn't lean forward. "I mean, I need to get outta here, and I need to take my guy with me."

"Your guy?"

"One of Tony's boys." Her eyes slide sideways across to the card game in the corner, and I immediately spot her man, one of the heavies standing guard: baby-faced, of medium height, and dressed in a cheap suit. His hands are buried in his trouser pockets, and he's sweating worse than any of the gamblers losing thousands at the table. He keeps glancing our way and he looks on the verge of losing his bottle completely.

"We've saved up enough money to go straight, to get out of the country, but we don't need Tony, or – " A shaky breath. "Or her coming after us." She doesn't so much as glance in the direction of the bead curtain and the woman beyond it. "I – we – we can pay you." The girl looks worried now, as if she knows exactly what she's saying, what the price of M's help might actually be.

M regards her steadily, a small smile gracing the corners of her mouth. I've got my purse in my hand within my handbag, but there's only so much longer I can stall the cigarette girl before someone else gets impatient and notices.

"Your bosses don't approve, I presume? Of you kids ditching your gainful employment – your _families_ \- to run away together? Proper little Romeo and Juliet, you two, aren't you?"

The girl bites her lip. It shouldn't be too hard a job, not the kind of job someone usually brings to M. But she knows Tony, and even more than that, she knows Cissy, so the job isn't quite as simple as it appears. I watch M, wondering what she's going to say next.

She stubs out her cigarette, then takes another from the packet I've just bought. "I think we can manage something to help you. But you'll need to be paying attention. You won't get a second chance."

The girl nods quickly. "How much – "

"I'll ask for something when I think of the right thing. But for now – " She doesn't take her eyes from the girl's. "Pauline?"

My hand's still in my bag, so it takes me only a moment to palm the empty matchbox which I know M wants. 

Her attention still on the girl, M says, "I'll need a hair from you and one from him, to help me to keep track of you. Can you do that?"

It turns out the girl's come prepared; she slips her right hand into the back of her left white glove and draws out two hairs which are twined together for safety. M seems impressed the girl was all ready since it proves she's done her homework.

I offer the girl a banknote, which allows her to slip the hairs to me. I immediately put them into the matchbox, then casually pass it over to M while the girl is counting out my change. The transaction complete, the girl gives us her best professional smile, then moves away.

"What are you going to ask for, their firstborn?" I cock an eyebrow at M, who scowls.

"What would I do with a kid?"

I don't answer, just sigh mentally as I resign myself to keeping half an eye on the girl and her guy; I wonder what M has planned for them, and decide that it could be fun to watch. M will give me a signal when she's ready to make her move.

"As much fun as this is, I think I'm going to be brazen and ask the barman to pass on a message to Cissy to let her know I want to talk to her." M pushes her tumbler away from her and gets to her feet, and I glance across at the barman, who's been pouring drinks, mixing cocktails, and cleaning the bar like a clockwork toy all evening.

"Think that'll work?" I ask curiously.

M shrugs. "I can but try."

"I'll hold the fort," I tell her, and she tosses a sassy smile my way, then turns and sashays across to the bar, her hips swaying mesmerisingly. Her auburn hair looks perfect still, not a strand out of place, and her perfect skin's glowing from the tan she acquired last week while we were in Biarritz. My cock stiffens beneath my dress again, both in response to watching M, and in remembrance of that week's holiday we'd spent at a private villa with its own pool and beach. We'd spent most of the week in orgasmic bliss as M had let me fuck her anywhere and everywhere I wanted.

I force myself to lean back in my chair in a casual manner and wonder with annoyance how much longer Cissy is going to keep M waiting. My balls are turning blue beneath this ridiculous dress, and I'm desperate to get M somewhere private so I can fuck her silly.

Picking up my tumbler, I swallow a mouthful of Scotch, and watch the people who are watching M, wondering to themselves what angle she's working. Glancing at the card game, I notice the young goon has his eyes glued to the cigarette girl, who's resolutely circulating among the tables, smiling at people and doing her best to hide the frown of anxiety that's creasing her brow. She's a smart kid, I realise – keeping her eyes strictly on the customers instead of looking constantly at her guy. Of course, the boy's not really giving himself away with his staring because no man would blame him for not being able to keep his eyes off such a long-legged beauty.

As I watch, I wonder how M's going to keep her promise to help them. She might simply send them a couple of tickets for the Orient Express and a bit of a spell to keep them invisible, or at least inconspicuous. That'd be the simplest way.

On the other hand, M probably has a way to do the whole thing without having to resort to magic at all, and if she has, she'll use it, just to prove it can be done, and to show others that she doesn't have to rely on the tricks for which she's best known. It would keep people guessing, and be both a distraction and a threat: if this is what I can achieve without resorting to magic, imagine how much more I can do if I did decide to use my power.

M returns from the bar, and although her hips are swaying, her smile is wry. She sets our fresh drinks down on the table, then resumes her seat.

"No luck?" She shakes her head. "Then maybe we should take care of Romeo and Juliet, then get out of here. If you give me the word, I can easily start a diversion."

M shakes her head again. "I have to talk to Cissy."

I knew she'd say that, but it doesn't stop me feeling frustrated. "So, what did the barman have to say?"

"Not a damn thing. He's a zombie."

Cissy's got herself a zombie barman? I chuckle quietly. "Cute. So a shot of whiskey's a shot of whiskey, nothing's skimmed off the top, and there's nothing extra for the band." I glance over at the barman and see that he's standing in the exactly the same spot as before, mopping the counter over and over, his skin grey and his expression blank. I decide that I didn't spot his nature before because I'd been so damn distracted by the necessity of maintaining my Pauline persona.

"She'll talk to me," M says, determination making her blue eyes steely. "I just have to wait her out."

Personally I'm not so sure, but I say nothing because there's no arguing with M in this mood. She's got her chin in her hand, and is staring so hard at the bead curtain that it's a wonder the thing hasn't collapsed under the weight of her gaze.

The singer, a gorgeous black woman who's actually a siren, is finishing her latest song, a slow, sad one about a girl whose man done her wrong, yet she keeps coming back, like girls always do in such songs. People listen to those songs and think they'd never be that stupid, but they're wrong. We're all capable of being that stupid over something. I was. And it was only because I had someone in my life who sat me down and said, "Stop. This is self-destructive", that I became less stupid. It's a rare thing, having someone like that in your life, and it's why my loyalty to M is so absolute.

Cissy's not going to talk to Madame M, and we're going to sit here all night, trying to wait her out and wasting time that could be used more profitably, or pleasurably. I suppress a sigh.

"Time for our Romeo and Juliet to go," M announces suddenly, apropos of nothing.

I don't question her, I trust her to know the best timing for everything, so I nod, get to my feet, then sashay across to the card game in the corner. Despite three days of intense coaching from M, I still don't feel that confident of my ability to pull off a womanly, hip-swaying walk, but Tony O'Malley doesn't seem to find any fault, judging by the appreciative way he's eyeing me as I approach.

I suspect he's been watching me all evening, wondering where I've sprung from, and why Madame M's bodyguard, James Bond, isn't with her as usual. But for all his watching, he'll have no idea what M's up to, what she's _really_ planning. She's a crazy witch, after all, and who knows what a dame's really after when she's starts scheming, eh?

I touch the shoulder of the player sitting opposite Tony, and the guy shivers and licks his lips; he won't be fit for anything for the rest of the night, but that's no concern of mine. I focus my blue eyes on Tony.

"Got room for one more, Mr O'Malley?" I ask, my tone courteous and respectful enough to fool Tony.

"My dear," Tony says, opening his arms wide in a welcoming gesture that lacks sincerity to my eyes. "Wherever have you been hiding all my life?"

I force myself to remember that I'm Pauline, not James Bond, and give him the sweetest smile I can manage. "I've just come from up country," I tell him. "Scotland."

"And you and Madame M are close?" It's half a question, half a statement, and I nod enthusiastic agreement.

"Oh yes, she's like a sister to me."

He nods, then turns to the dealer. "Henry, deal the lady in, why don't you?" He gestures, and the men around the table move their chairs around to accommodate me. The cigarette girl's beau fetches another chair for me, and holds it carefully as I sit down. 

Already knowing that the stake for the game is two thousand pounds, I draw a roll of bank notes from my handbag and place it on the table in front of me.

The one called Henry, a skinny fellow with a pencil thin moustache, deals me in and we play. Of course, if I was here as myself, instead of in the persona of Pauline, the men here wouldn't be quite so keen to play with me. Although I say it myself, as shouldn't, James Bond has a well-deserved reputation as a poker player, and I don't even need magic to win, although I'm not above using it in special circumstances, like tonight.

Henry deals my hand and I sweep up the cards, taking careful note of what I hold. The first thing to do is break even: two thousand pounds is two thousand pounds after all, and it's important to me that the boys don't think they can pull a fast one on the girl who's new in town. So we play cards, and it's not long before I've earned back my stake, and after that I don't play to win, or to lose, but just to give M however much time she needs to sort out Romeo and Juliet's exit.

I'm aware of Tony watching me and don't doubt that he's wondering if I possess any of M's talents. At the same time that I'm watching my cards, and Tony O'Malley watching me, I've also got my eye on the cigarette girl's guy, M, and the bead curtain; M's about to mess up Cissy's club, I'm sure, and I can't believe Cissy will let M get away with that without having something to say to her.

M's over by the bar, looking more relaxed than she did when she was there before, and I note that the cigarette girl's disappeared from sight, and I dare to hope that things will work out, and that we won't have to try to run out in a hailstorm of bullets. 

Some people are probably wondering why M, who's never looked more gorgeous than she does tonight, isn't surrounded by men hoping to do more than flirt with such a sexy and powerful dame, especially when her usual bodyguard's not lurking two paces away, intimidating them; I decide that she's chosen to make herself inconspicuous in order to avoid unnecessary distractions.

Two of the guys in the game know M's reputation, and therefore know better than to discount me just because I'm a woman; the other two, however, have no idea who Madame M is, so they easily discount me, despite the fact they're having a very bad time of it; their pride won't allow them to admit the fact that a woman can play poker as well as any man. I let them hang onto that delusion as much as possible, winning a hand here, losing one there, but ensuring that I never win enough to piss them off. After a little while longer, they start joking around, not so much forgetting the presence of a lady in their midst as overlooking it.

"Tommy, are you all right?" Tony studies his young goon, who's tugging repeatedly at his collar, as if it's too tight, and I realise Tommy's going to blow the whole thing if he's not careful. The thought makes me realise just why the cigarette girl asked for M's help to pull this off. All I can do at the moment, though, is give him a brief look of warning before I return my attention to my cards.

Tommy looks back, a deer-caught-in-the-headlights expression on his face. "It's a little warm in here, Mr O'Malley."

"You're not feeling faint, are you?" demands Tony. "Tell me you're not feeling faint?"

"No sir!"

"Good."

So now Tony's on edge, and this could all fall to pieces after all; if I can warn M, though, we can still walk away, it's not too late. But how to warn her when she's still leaning casually at the bar, and ignores my attempt at eye contact.

The game continues, and Tony relaxes a little, although the cigarette girl's guy is still on edge, watching the door compulsively. Shortly after that I see M touch one of her earrings, adjust her headband, then stroke the feather in it back across her hair. Time for me to act, so I slip a couple of extra aces into my hand, then promptly fold. When the hand ends, Henry sweeps up the cards, shuffles them, then begins to deal them out again. No one, of course, would think of accusing me of palming cards, because where the hell could I hide them in this dress, showing so much bare skin?

"Boys," I say as I gather up my winnings and arrange the notes into a neat roll, "I want to thank you for a great game, but I have to go now. I hope you're not offended?" I bat my eyelashes at them, wishing I could blush to order, like M can. They don't argue with me because I've done nothing to offend them; I haven't even cleaned them out, just dented their pride a little.

"My dear Pauline, you're welcome at my table any time; be sure to tell Madame M I said so." Tony spreads his arms wide again, and I lean in to kiss his cheek because that's what Pauline would do. His fellows, meanwhile, glare daggers at him, and I depart with a coy smile.

Returning to Madame M, she asks, "About five minutes before they find out?"

I nod. "About that."

"Then I'll go and powder my nose. Hold the fort for me?"

"Always."

And right on cue, five minutes after I left the game, one of the gamblers shouts "Hey! What are you trying to pull?" And he's loud enough to have everyone in Moonlight Serenade turning to look over at the corner card game.

Within moments, despite Tony's best attempts to calm them down, the table is tipped over, sending cards, poker chips, and bank notes flying everywhere, and Tony's bodyguards and hangers-on go rushing in to join the melee, all except Tommy, who's smarter than I first thought because he backs away from the fistfight. M moves across to his side, whispers in his ear, then leads him to the front of the club, and as far as I can tell, I'm the only one who sees them go since everyone else is watching the fight.

I move to the back of the club, doing my best to make myself invisible, but I've never been as good at it as M, and it's even harder when I feel so conspicuous in this outfit.

One of the dancers screams as the fight spreads out from the corner onto the dance floor, but the band continues to play. I notice a couple of guys watching, their expressions eager as they crack their knuckles and smile widely enough to display their fangs. They'd enjoy a fight, especially since they know they'd win.

Knowing that I can't invite trouble, not as Pauline, I sit up on the bar out of the way. Madame M joins me and we watch the proceedings, along with several creatures of the night. I've got an empty bottle in my hand, just in case.

"Everything all right?" I ask M quietly, who gives me one of her dazzling smiles, setting my pulse racing yet again.

"Nice bit of entertainment," she observes, and I can't help smiling with pride at what I've engineered.

One of the heavies crashes into the bar, and I crack the bottle over his head, because it's a classic move, and I just can't resist. The bottle shatters, shards of glass raining down over his shoulders, and the guy slides down the bar, onto the floor, unconscious. Very satisfying.

There's a mob wrestling in the middle of the floor now, to the accompaniment of otherworldly growls, and a few more people seem to be sporting fur than before, and it's possible some of the fangs are dripping with blood, and it's all getting a little bit more out of hand than I'd anticipated. I'm just thinking that it's time to get M out of there, when there's a sound of bells chiming, and although it's subtle, it gets everyone's attention instantly, and the whole place pauses, as if time's standing still. All the action stops and everyone turns towards the doorway with the bead curtain, where a woman stands, holding the curtain aside with a long ivory cigarette holder. She's wearing a red silk dress that's skin tight, and red high heeled shoes that boost her height an extra three inches. Her arms are crossed over her chest, emphasising her breasts, and her stance is evocative of hot, sweaty sex. She has an aura about her that makes it impossible to look past her; once you look at her, your eyes are snagged on her. She is almost the twin of Madame M, apart from the age lines around her eyes, which neither make-up or magic can entirely hide.

This is Cissy, M's older sister.

The next moment, Cissy's gaze is withdrawn from everyone except Madame M, and the doorman and a couple of his cronies wade into the mob, and start hauling people out, shoving them out of the door, despite their protests. Tony, who's one of them, doesn't even notice he's missing a guy. At a guess, Tommy and his girl are already well on their way to the Continent by now.

As the waiters, identical triplets I now realise, which explains why they seemed to be in three places at once, rush in to begin sweeping up broken glass, and righting the tables and chairs, Cissy is still staring at M, and I hold my breath, waiting to see if she'll finally talk to Madame M.

Behind her, the group who'd been paying her court, begin leaving her room, and after a long moment, Cissy nods, and M nods back. 

"Stay here," she tells me in a low voice, and when I open my mouth to object, she shakes her head slightly, her expression unyielding, and I subside into a chair, my own expression mutinous, as she crosses the room and enters Cissy's inner sanctum.

Madame M emerges forty minutes later, her expression so carefully neutral that I, who know her best, know that whatever discussion she's been having with Cissy hasn't gone the way she wanted. I get to my feet, and we cross the club together, collecting our minks on our way out.

Outside in the reeking alley, I help M into her mink, then turn her around and kiss her hungrily, backing her up against the wall.

"Really?" she asks, when we come up for some air; my body's still pressed hard against hers, my cock threatening to burst out of my French knickers. "Fucking me in a noisome alley is hardly romantic, now is it?" she asks, and nuzzles my neck.

I feel a blush heating my face and back away. "Sorry," I mumble, thoroughly chagrined.

"Let's find the car," she suggests, and links her arm with mine to lead me out of the alley. "You can fuck me there."

I groan. Fucking M in the back of her car is one of my favourite things, as she knows perfectly well. Although I've never done it while wearing a dress before.

The car appears alongside us as soon as we reach the main street, and I usher M inside, then climb in after her.

"Home, Bill," she tells her driver, then engages the privacy function, which not only darkens the windows, including the one between us and Bill, but also soundproofs the passenger area, which means no one will be able to hear anything when I make M scream.

She slips her shoes off, then stretches out on the plush back seat, a heated look in her blue eyes. I hastily ditch my French knickers, moaning in relief when my swollen cock springs free, then shove her dress upwards from her knees to her waist, baring her thighs. She's not wearing any knickers at all (she often doesn't), and I groan loudly at the sight of her glistening sex, the lips pink and puffy.

I lift my dress, then move my body over hers and plunge my cock straight into her slick heat. It's M's turn to moan, and she clutches at my shoulders, pulling my body down onto hers as I begin to thrust deep and hard.

"Yes, James, yes! Oh yes! Good boy! Don't stop. HARDER!" The last is yelled, rather than spoken, and her cries egg me on; I wonder if I've ever fucked her as hard as this before.

A few minutes later, she's screaming my name, her pussy muscles clutching tightly at my cock; a few more thrusts from me, and my seed begins spurting into her as I come with a loud shout of my own.

"Good boy, James," she says, her voice sounding lower and huskier than usual; it's enough to send a jolt of lust straight to my groin, and I begin kissing her hungrily.

It's only as I lift myself off her a little while later that it occurs to me how incongruous I must look, wearing a blue dress that matches my eyes, while my cock slides out of her dripping pussy.

"We should do this again," I suggest as I wipe my cock on my discarded knickers. "But you can wear a tux."

M smirks at me as she straightens her dress. "Fancy a bit of role playing, do you James?"

"Yes. If you don't mind?"

She shakes her head. "I'd love to." There's a glint in her eye that tells me she's already expanding on my plan, and I shiver with pleasant anticipation.

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was inspired by and is a re-write of a short story of the same name by Carrie Vaughn. The minute I saw that one of her characters was called 'Madame M', but most often referred to as simply 'M', I couldn't stop picturing Judi Dench in the role. This fic was therefore completely inevitable...


End file.
